


The Healer

by Aelia_D



Category: Original Work
Genre: Exophilia, F/F, Female Orc/Female Reader, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe that's a thing worth tagging in my writing but here we are, Reader Insert, Referenced violence, Romance, no sex in this story, non-explicit violence, orc love, orc romance, referenced homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16046111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_D/pseuds/Aelia_D
Summary: You've inherited your grandmother's home, and it is a bit of a disaster. It is certainly more of a project that you can manage alone. When an injured orc collapses on your doorstep, she could be the help you need, but she could also be bringing trouble with her.





	The Healer

Six months ago you inherited your grandmother’s cottage. It had taken you some time to wrap up everything back home, pack your things, and travel across the kingdom to take up residence. When you had finally arrived, you wanted to weep. Not just because it made your grandmother’s death that much more real, but because her beautiful cottage was in shambles.

Her once-lush garden is overgrown. The stone fence around the land is crumbling, rocks having tumbled out of place. Shingles from the roof are in the yard, and the paint on the exterior peeling. The good news, you suppose, is that none of the windows had broken–glass was far too expensive for you to afford to replace, particularly looking at how much work you needed to do–and no wild animals seemed to have gotten inside during the winter.

Gran would have told you to pick a spot, and get to work. Mum would have told you to start at the top and work your way down. Pops would have reminded you that many hands make light work, and suggested you head into the village of Oakheart to get help. Your sister would have laughed and rolled up her sleeves to assist you herself.

You feel very alone.

Oakheart is a few miles away by cart or horse, a bit shorter if you travel on foot and cut through the woods and fields. Your cottage rests in a meadow at the edge of the woods. It’s isolated from the main road, resting down a narrow track just wide enough for a horse and cart. You’ve made a few trips to and from town, getting supplies for your many projects, stowing the materials in the somewhat dilapidated barn behind the cottage, and hoping that you can find help when you need it.

Everyone has been friendly so far, but you’re too overwhelmed to even know how to begin asking for help, and none of them quite seem to know how to offer. The impasse has left you heading back to the farm alone each time, though in your less stressed moments you suspect that when you ask, you’ll find the help you need.

You’re up late one night about a week after arriving, staring into the fire–having finally cleared out the chimney that day–when you hear a thud just outside the front door.

You grab lantern, and a poker from the fireplace and cautiously creep to the closest window, peering out through a crack in the shutters. You don’t see anything, so you head to the door. It opens silently–you greased that door after nearly dislocating your shoulder that first day–revealing a heap on your front step.

It groans and rolls, and you nearly leap out of your skin. It’s an orc, bloodied and bruised. Her skin is gray–likely not its normal color–and all she seems to have to her name is her bloody clothes and a small rucksack. Her clan braid has been severed, but the rest of her beaded braids are intact.

“Shit.” You say.

You look around, but there’s nobody else in sight.

Anything that can hurt an orc badly enough for them to lose consciousness is not something you are equipped to fight. You shouldn’t get involved. But you also can’t leave her here to die.

It takes a few minutes to get the orc rolled into your home, and arranged before the fire. You draw the curtains, and ensure that no light leaks out of your cottage; you don’t need anyone knowing you’re here. Whoever, or whatever, has done this to this orc will have no problem killing you.

You strip her to her underclothes, leaving her in just her loincloth and breastband so you can take stock of her injuries. It’s as bad as you feared. From worst to most minor, the wounds include a large gash on her belly, what appears to be a cracked rib–though you can’t be certain–a broken tusk, a black eye, a split lip, and a lot of other bruising. Someone was trying to kill her, and they nearly succeeded. You clean up what you can, and unfortunately you know she is going to need stitches.

You’ve done it before, on your family’s animals back home, and you’ve assisted your gran helping humans in the past. This isn’t going to be easy or pretty. If the orc wakes up mid-procedure, you could get hurt, but if you don’t do it, her wound could get infected and she will die.

“I need to stitch you up,” You tell her, though you’re sure she can’t hear. “I’m sorry. I know this will hurt, but I hope you can’t feel it.”

You say a few quick prayers to the gods who protect healers, and prepare yourself to stitch up the orc. After ensuring the wound is clean, and that your tools are clean, you position yourself as best you can to get this done quickly, and make the first stitch. She stirs. You pray more fervently to your family’s gods, and any others who may be listening and are not tricksters, that you survive this healing.

By the third stitch–you estimate you’ll need twelve in total–the orc’s eyelids are fluttering, signs that consciousness is coming back to her. You tie off the stitch you’re on, and prepare yourself for the worst. You don’t want to die like this, but your gran would be proud of you for helping, and that matters.

The orc’s eyes open, and for a long moment she is very still. Her pointed ears twitch, and her nostrils flare as she tries to assess where she is.

You shift slightly. The noise alerts her to your presence.

She turns to look at you quickly, with only a small grunt of pain as she moves. Her good eye widens, then narrows as she takes you in. Her black eye squints, looking awful. She sits upright, in an abrupt movement that makes her wince–you see the flicker of pain across her face–but it’s clear she’s prepared to fight you, too.

“Who are you, human?” Her voice is a rich rumble.

“I’m a healer. You passed out on my doorstep.” You say, then gesture to the wound on the orc’s belly. “I’m trying to help, but you need stitches. Now that you’re awake, this may be harder, but I need to finish.”

She looks you over, seeming to take your measure, then down at the work you’ve already done. It seems to be the fact that you’re clearly trying to help her more than anything about yourself that makes her nod in assent. She lays back down and clenches her hands into fists at her sides.

“Continue.” She says.

You take a shaky breath, then lean over her once more. It was nerve wracking when she was unconscious, but now that she’s awake, you’re having a hard time keeping your hands steady. You bring the needle to her skin, and carefully resume stitching the edges of her wound together. The orc doesn’t flinch, or show any signs that you’re hurting her. You know it must be, though, and you try to work fast.

Nine stitches later, you tie off one final time, and sit back. You’ve done it. The scar won’t be small, but with luck, she’ll survive.

You meet her eyes once more, noticing the sweat standing out on her brow, and the way her gray eyes are locked on your face. With the most reassuring smile you can muster, you pack away your kit, and reach for the small jar of salve. It’s a healing ointment, infused with herbs and some magic. Carefully, you smooth that over her injuries, before wrapping them in clean cotton.

“What’s your name?” You ask her, more to get her talking and perhaps get her mind off the pain.

“Ghorza” she grunts.

You nod, and tell her your name.

It doesn’t take long to establish that no, her rib is not broken (probably) but she’s in bad shape. You get her fed, give her some water, and get her settled onto a makeshift bed beside the fire. Your own bedroll is nearby; upstairs isn’t ready for anyone to sleep in yet.

“My grandmother was the village healer and wise woman,” you tell Ghorza. “Many of her herbal remedies are still good. A sleeping draught might be good, to ensure you rest tonight. Would you like one?”

“No,” Ghorza growls. “If I’m unconscious, I can’t defend us.”

“In that case, let me see what she had to help pain without putting you to sleep.” You’re not sure Ghorza can defend you even if she is conscious, but she’s right; if she’s deeply asleep, neither of you stand a chance. You’re no warrior.

You head to the cellar where your gran did most of her work. Her workbench and shelves packed to the brim with her medicinal supplies take up an entire wall. Everything is meticulously labeled with what it is, and the date it was gathered or created. Her journals line the back of the workbench, along with some of her magical grimoires, and her medicine books.

You miss your gran desperately, but you can’t let yourself wallow right now. You grab one of her medicine journals and look for the remedy you need. It only takes a few minutes to find a herbal blend that should do what you need.

When you get back upstairs, you find Ghorza dozing lightly. Her eyes snap open as soon as you enter the room, mug full of steaming herbal brew in your hands.

She sniffs it.

“It’s one of my gran’s blends. It’ll dull the pain, and speed your healing, but shouldn’t make you drowsy.” You tell her.

“I hope your gran knew what she was doing,” Ghorza says before gulping it down.

You bristle at the insult to your grandmother’s skill, but you know Ghorza must be scared and hurting, so you try to let it go.

“Who did this?” You ask.

Ghorza gestures angrily to the spot where her clan braid should be. You decide not to press the issue further tonight. Whatever the circumstances, by taking her in, you’ve made your choice, and anyone coming to finish the job is unlikely to hesitate long enough to ask whether you knew the whole story first.

“Let’s try to get some sleep.” You say, shifting the coals in the fire and adding a log that’ll keep it burning long into the night. You blow out the lanterns, and settle into your makeshift bed.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, but when it does eventually catch you, your dreams are odd. In the morning, you don’t recall much more than a sense of deep longing. You’re not well-rested, but you don’t have time to laze about in bed. You’ve got an injured orc to care for, and your grandmother’s farm to get in order.

Ghorza is asleep, and for a moment you study her. Now that she’s not at death’s door, you can see that her skin has more of a green-gray tone to it normally, a soft color that you rather like. Her hair is black, it is braided neatly, and carefully, which makes the spot with her missing braid stand out all the more. Her nose is straight, wide and flat, with a dusting of deeper green freckles across the bridge of it and her cheeks. There’s a golden hoop through one nostril. Her lips are full, though puffy around the spot where her lip was split. Her tusks are polished, and jut upwards from her lower lip. One of them is broken. You imagine that happened last night.

You rise from your bed, and the rustling of your blankets is enough to wake her. Her gray eyes track your movements as you pull an overdress on over your shift, and tie an apron around your waist. You smile at her reassuringly.

“I’ll make us breakfast, and then I’ll see what I can do about clothes for you. I’m afraid your shirt is done for.” You tell her.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks.

“Because it is the right thing to do.”

You walk away before you can get sucked into a discussion. You’re not sure you can explain to her that you’re scared of the consequences, but you know that you couldn’t let her die. That you know that here of all places, in your gran’s house–the woman healed this village for more than five decades–to do anything other than care for Ghorza would be to disrespect her legacy, and you won’t do it. You’re not sure you could put those feelings into words.

Instead, you busy yourself cooking. You slice and toast some bread, and fry up some eggs and tomatoes. Smoked fish from your grandmother’s stores in the cellar, and some soft cheese you traded for when you arrived in town round out the meal.

While you cook, Ghorza pads into the kitchen and takes a seat at the sturdy wooden table. She watches as you brew a pot of strong tea, and you slide food onto a pair of heavy ceramic plates. You move around your grandmother’s incredibly modern kitchen with comfort and familiarity. The room is in good condition, and everything is as you remember it.

You put a plate down in front of Ghorza, and set yours next to her. You set the teapot, and mugs as well as a pitcher of cream on the table. The salt cellar, sugar bowl, a jar of honey, and a small jar of jam are already out.

The orc is clearly startled by your generosity.

Ghorza opens her mouth, and closes it a few times, before deciding not to ask questions. She instead focuses on eating. She takes her tea with milk and honey.

“Thank you,” Ghorza says at the end of the meal.

Before you can rise, she’s gathered the dishes, and has brought them to the sink. She pumps in water, and begins to wash them. You watch, bemused, for a moment, but decide to let that pass. Yes, Ghorza is a guest, but things are not exactly even, and perhaps she feels she owes you?

So you gather up the other items that need washing and set them on the counter beside her before tucking the last few things in the ice box.

You need to find her a shirt.

It’s not that you dislike seeing the bare expanse of Ghorza’s body, but you think perhaps it would be better if you didn’t. You can see her muscles flexing, her green-gray skin is dusted with freckles all over, and you can count the scars across her torso. The problem is that you like it too much, and you’re liable to make things awkward. Besides, she’ll feel better when she’s dressed in something clean, you know you always do.

There are chests in the bedroom upstairs that have clothes in them. You remember seeing that, and noticing that the clothes were rather large. Perhaps something there will work. The stairs creak as you climb them, but the chest has exactly what you hope for. (There’s a tingle of magic under your fingertips when you open it, something to perhaps investigate later.) It’s a clean linen shirt, the fabric soft, the seams still strong. It looks big enough to fit Ghorza easily. There are more clothes in the chest, sized similarly. You grab the whole stack, and head back downstairs.

Ghorza is sitting at the table in the kitchen, unwrapping her wounds.

“I found you some clothes!” You tell her.

“Great. With these, I can get going.” She reaches for the clothes in your arms, but when she says that, you pull them back.

“No,” You say with a frown. “You don’t have to stay here long, but you do need to stay at least long enough to actually heal.”

“I can’t,” Ghorza says with a grimace. “I need to get moving. As long as I’m here, I’m making you a target, too.”

“You’re in no condition to.” You tell her, trying to sound firm the way your mum would when she’s not open to argument. “You need to heal, or you could get infected and die, and I didn’t save you last night just for you to leave here and keel over.”

Ghorza makes a noise of irritation, but doesn’t argue further. You hand her the clothes, and show her the bathroom.

“Do not get your stitches wet.” You tell her.

“Yes, boss.” Ghorza says with an eye roll and a smile.

You laugh, and go to brew her more of your gran’s healing tea.

Once Ghorza is medicated, and you’ve got her wounds covered in fresh ointment and bandages, you head outside to assess what really needs to be done with the roof. You’ve found evidence upstairs of it leaking, and the two-storey cottage is a much larger project than you’ve ever done before. It’s likely you’re in over your head.

Your gran paid for a lot of the work on her home with her skills. You don’t have her magic, but in your many visits here, she taught you a few things about healing. You think you could maybe leverage that to barter with the village. Unless a new healer has moved in, you bet they’re in need of new ointments and herbal blends.

You’ve read books on roofing though, and you know what it takes. Perhaps that’s enough. You wrangle a big wooden ladder out of the barn, and lean it up against the house, wedging it into the ground firmly, before placing your foot on the first rung and testing it. If you just need to replace a few shingles, it’s probably something you can manage.

Probably.

You hear the garden door squeal open and slam shut.

“What are you doing?” Ghorza demands, interrupting your train of thought as you seriously debate whether you’re about to break your neck climbing onto this roof.

“The roof needs to get repaired.” You tell her, not looking away from the ladder.

“Human,” Ghorza says, stomping over to where you stand. “Do you have any sense of self preservation? Deliberately taking in an orc who has been cast out by her clan and now debating climbing onto a roof alone?”

“It needs to get done,” you say, though your response isn’t as certain as you’d like.

“Do you know anything about roofing?” She asks you, standing so close you can feel her body heat as she looms.

“I’ve read books.” You tell her.

“You’ve read books?!” Ghorza practically growls in exasperation, and throws her hands up. “No. You will wait until I am healed, and then I will help you do this. You will not die trying to do something you do not know how to do because of your books.”

“What?” You blink a few times, not quite registering what she has just said.

“I know how to do this.” She gestures at your roof. “I know how to build things, and repair things. It is what I do.” She drapes her arm over your shoulders and walks you away from the ladder. “Show me what your home needs, and I will help.”

“You don’t have to, Ghorza.” You tell her.  

“Human, I owe you my life.” She says. “I have to.”

Your parents’ home is near an orc clan, and this village is situated near another. In all your years, you’ve never heard of a situation like this. Not one where a life debt is repaid with household chores. Though her logic seems dubious at best, you don’t know enough to be able to argue with her.

You show her the crumbling stone fence, the broken shutters, and the damaged crank on the well. When she looks at the barn, she just sighs and nods. The overgrown garden is something you can handle easily, and you tell her so. Inside there’s the bed upstairs; it needs a new mattress. Some of the stairs need to be repaired. One of the chairs is wobbly, and needs to be fixed. Ghorza just nods as you show her things.

“I can fix this,” she says.

“You don’t owe me anything, Ghorza,” you insist.

“I do.” She says, and presses one large, gray-green finger to your lips, shushing further protest. “You did not help because you sought to gain anything, but it’s clear to me that I was brought here for a reason. I will help you as I can, and when it is done, I will be on my way.”

You don’t know what to say to that, and her finger is still against your lips, so you just nod. Ghorza jerks her hand back as if burned, and looks away quickly. You feel a blush burning on your skin, so you murmur a quick excuse and scurry away.

For the next few days, you and Ghorza ease into a rhythm. You cook breakfast, she cleans up. She does small tasks around the house while you work to tame the garden. Around lunch, you change her bandages and check her stitches; her wound is healing well. She cleans up the kitchen after lunch. After that, Ghorza comes and helps in the yard as much as she can without stressing her injuries, and then the two of you eat dinner. The evenings pass with Ghorza whittling or trying to fix up your gran’s old spinning wheel, and you reading nearby.

Day by day the two of you knock chores off the list. It starts with the “easy” stuff; the garden is weeded and sown with this year’s seeds. Herbs are gathered from the forest and set to dry. The well is fixed. The shutters are fixed. The wobbly chair is fixed.

Before you know it, it’s been two weeks, and you’re removing Ghorza’s stitches. She celebrates by helping you haul a mattress upstairs and get it situated on the four-poster bed. You stretch fresh sheets (found in that chest which you are starting to suspect is enchanted to provide what you need) over the mattress, and then a down comforter on top. Ghorza settles her own newly upgraded bed in a corner upstairs.

It’s starting to feel like a home again, instead of just a place you rest your head at night, and you have Ghorza to thank for a lot of it. There’s a part of you also, that recognizes that the more healed she gets, the sooner she’ll leave.

The thought hurts. You don’t let yourself dwell on it.

You throw yourself into cleaning up the land. The fruit trees need pruning, and the cherry trees are almost ready for harvest. The beehives, while full of apparently happy bees, are half-buried in overgrown grass, and it takes a full day to cut back a path to them. (Checking in on the hives is another day’s task, and you’re relieved to find that the colonies are looking good, their harvest looking healthy.)

“The barn is going to take some real help,” Ghorza tells you over dinner one night, a little over a month into her stay.

“Okay,” You nod, mentally running over the list of your gran’s remedies that remain in the cellar, prepared for trading. There’s still plenty. You could pay for several people to work for several days with just what’s prepared right now. “We can arrange that.”

“I want to go into town with you, to ensure we’re getting good workers.” She says.

“Are you sure?”

Ghorza nods. Until now, you’ve been making trips to the village alone. Oakheart is outside her clan’s territory, but it’s safest if nobody sees her. Still, you’ve kept your ears open during the last few trips, trying to make sure that nobody is looking for her. The local clan hasn’t said anything, and there didn’t seem to be any unfamiliar orcs wandering about.

“We’ll head out early tomorrow then.” You say.

The two of you settle into your beds, but you can’t sleep. As Ghorza’s list of items to repair has shrunk, you’ve come to the realization that you are going to miss her quite desperately. You know that she’s healed just fine; you’ve done your job, and you’ve done it well, but you look forward to talking with her every day. You enjoy the jokes she makes, and her thoughts on the stories and poems you sometimes read aloud to her.

You don’t want to be alone again, but more than that, you don’t want Ghorza to leave. You roll over in your huge bed, and try to get comfortable. You hear her breathing in the corner, slow and steady, but that only drives home the point that in a few short weeks, that could be gone.

When morning comes, you feel like you’ve barely slept.

You’re dragging your feet as you cook up breakfast and make the tea. The two of you hardly manage conversation, and before you know it, you’re guiding the cart out onto the main road to Oakheart.

Town is as busy as always, and if the greetings are any different from normal, you don’t notice it. Nobody is reacting to Ghorza’s presence beside you.

Until one of the orcs does. He stops what he’s doing when he sees Ghorza beside you, practically dropping the crates he’s carrying, and hurries over to your cart. He looks around, almost as though he’s worried people have spotted you. It would perhaps scare you, but you know he’s one of the leaders of the local orc clan, and the blacksmith, and you know he’s a good person.

“You!” he says, and his voice is a restrained hiss. “You’re the one they’ve been looking for.”

Ghorza pales.

“Come with me,” he says. “We need to talk.”

You look between Ghorza, and the Orc who you recognize, but whose name you don’t remember. She’s frozen, fear clear on her face. You take her hand, and a`t once her attention is on you.

“Let’s go,” you tell her. “The orcs here are good. I’ve known them my whole life.”

“I-” She stops, shakes her head. “I knew the orcs in my clan my whole life, too.”

“Trust me,” you say, your heart aching for the bitterness you hear in her voice. You still don’t know what happened, why her clan turned on her and cast her out. But you know her well enough to know that it was not deserved.

She searches your face, then nods.

The two of you guide the cart behind the blacksmith’s shop, where he shows you inside and shuts the door.

“There have been strangers here, asking about you the last few days,” He says, looking at Ghorza, whose hand is still clasping yours. Her grip tightens, but beyond that she doesn’t show a reaction. “They say you broke their code, and they have a bounty on your head.”

“I did.” Ghorza says. She takes a deep breath, as if she’s preparing herself. “I loved another woman.”

It feels like you can’t catch your breath. Your heart breaks for her.

“Is that all?” The other orc asks.

“Yes,” Ghorza says. “I loved her, and they discovered it. They declared me a code-breaker, and had me cast out. They chased me for months. When they found me, they beat me badly. I’d have died, but I was lucky enough to land on her doorstep.” She gestures to you. “I knew they’d find me eventually but…”

There’s a long moment of silence while the orc seems to take her measure. He nods to himself.

“Our clan does not… agree with that. I am prepared to offer you protection.” He extends a hand, an offer for a handshake. “We can discuss joining our clan at a future date, but if you accept, it will enable us to help you.”

Ghorza is very still.

“I’m not worried about me,” she says. “I need you to protect the healer; I owe her my life.”

You blush as both orcs look at you.

“Agreed.” He says.

They shake. Ghorza visibly relaxes, but she doesn’t let go of your hand as the two orcs sit down and hash out details. When Jolagh and Ghorza come to an arrangement involving not only your protection, but also help for re-roofing your home, you chime in. You’re glad for help but you’re not taking things for free.  Eventually the three of you agree on something; orcs will come by starting tomorrow to help, and the clan will be paid in future services, spread out over time.

When you leave the blacksmith’s house, Ghorza is visibly more relaxed. It makes you glad.

The rest of the day in town seems to go by easily; you load up with supplies, and prepare to head home. Conversation is sparse, but it’s comfortable between you, and when you settle into the cart, she sits closer to you than she did that morning, her hip just brushing yours.

You smile, and lean into her a little. This is much better.

You wake in the middle of the night to the sound of something downstairs falling with a crash. In a second, you’re out of bed, a lantern in one hand, the candlestick from your nightstand in the other. Nobody should be in your house. Ghorza is on her feet, a grim look on her face.

She grabs you, carries you across the small space, and tucks you into the wardrobe. She gives you a lingering look, and then presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“They’ve found me. Probably followed us from town.” she whispers. “Stay  here. Be safe.”

You reach for her, but she closes the door firmly, and is gone. You wait for a span of heartbeats in the dark, debating with yourself. You can hide here and be safe, but let Ghorza fight on her own. Or you can go down there, and help, or maybe get in the way. You remember how badly beaten she was, and know that if she hadn’t been lucky–or blessed– enough to find you, she wouldn’t have survived.

You ease your way out of the wardrobe, and head for the magical chest. Inside is a leather jerkin and a sword, resting on top as if they’ve always been there. You ease the leather on over your nightgown, and lift the sword. It’s been a long time since you chased your sister around the yard hitting her with sticks, but you imagine it’s the same principle. And if it’s not, at least Ghorza won’t die alone.

You creep down the stairs, and hear the sounds of a scuffle out front. A gasp of pain that is unmistakably Ghorza’s makes you rush right out the front door, and into the stout chest of an orc you don’t know. He grabs you instinctively, and the sword falls from your grip, sliding down the stairs and landing on the ground halfway between you and Ghorza. Nobody seems to notice.  

Ghorza is on her knees nearby, panting and holding her side. Another orc stands over her, and though it’s clear she’s done some damage, she’s worse off than he is.

“What do we have here?” Asks the orc holding you. He leers at you, and sniffs your hair. “Pretty little toy, but you didn’t learn a damn thing, did you, Ghorza?”

“Let her go,” Ghorza growls.

“No,” the orc says. “I think we can have more fun with this human than we could with just you. Maybe we’ll kill your human pet while you watch.”

Something in Ghorza snaps. She lunges, knocking the orc near her over. There’s a noise, it’s wet and awful, and you think she may have just ripped his throat out with her bare hands. You squeeze your eyes shut. Then you’re falling, and you’re landing hard on the ground.

You hear the orc that was holding you let out a grunt of pain, and you feel wetness splatter over you. You refuse to think about that. You keep your eyes closed and your head down, focusing on the fact that you’re still alive and breathing, praying that this is Ghorza winning.

There’s silence, and then a hand oh-so-gently touches your shoulder. You carefully open your eyes and see Ghorza, looking worse for the wear, more nervous than you’ve ever seen her, and covered in blood. But it’s her. You can’t manage a smile. She’s too badly hurt; there’s blood running down her face from what you think is a cut near her hairline, and numerous other injuries.

You deliberately don’t look around; you don’t think you can handle what has happened here tonight. Very carefully you stand, turn, and walk inside.

You light the downstairs fire, gather healing materials, and brew a cup of tea for the pain you know she must be feeling. You gather liniments, poultices and bandages, and set them all in the front room, but Ghorza hasn’t come in. You open the door, and find her sitting on the stoop, her knees drawn up, her head buried there, crying.

You close the distance between you, your own discomfort with the gore in your front yard suddenly less important than the feelings of the woman who means the world to you.

“Ghorza,” you say softly. “Come inside and clean up.”

“I thought-” she says shakily. “I thought I’d scared you away.”

“No,” You reach out and carefully touch an uninjured part of her cheek. “I’m sorry I made you think that. I could never be afraid of you.”  

She’s quiet, but tears streak down her cheeks once more, leaving clean tracks through the dirt and blood on her face. You are careful not to look away from her as you tug her to her feet, and draw her into the house. There, you clean her up, and patch up her wounds, before giving her a healing draught. It’s not as bad as you’d first thought, but it’s still a sound beating.

You don’t exchange words, but you try to express your feelings through care. In the way you wash the grime away from her body and patch up her wounds, and the way you stand closer than you would have even a month ago.

You kneel in front of Ghorza, nearly between her knees, and look up at her. She watches you carefully, and you get the feeling that with one wrong move right now, she’ll spook and disappear into the night. You lift one shaking hand and press it to her cheek, and slowly, oh-so-slowly move in to kiss her. You hesitate, a hair’s breadth away from her; you don’t want to push this too far or too fast, you want her to close the distance.

You wait for the span of a few heartbeats, and are about to back off and give her space, prepared let things remain platonic between you when her lips touch yours. Her tusks lightly brush your cheek as she kisses you. It stays light, but it’s enough that when she pulls back, you’re grinning.

You open your mouth to say something, but are interrupted by someone pounding at your door.

Immediately, both of you are on high alert.

“Healer! Ghorza! Are you okay?” You recognize the voice, and relax slightly. You open the door carefully, and let Jolagh and some of his orcs into your home.

“We survived,” you say.

“I had one of my people watching them, but we weren’t quick enough. I’m sorry.” Jolagh says. He looks from you to Ghorza. “We’ll deal with the yard. We need to discuss how my clan can repay you for the harm that came to you while you were under our protection.”

You want to tell him it’s nothing, but you don’t. You look at Ghorza, aware that you almost lost her tonight. Twice, if you’re honest with yourself. Once to the orcs who would have killed her, and once to your reaction when you were still in shock.

“Tomorrow we can discuss,” Ghorza says with a nod. “Tonight, both of us need sleep.”

“Tomorrow then,” Jolagh agrees before leaving. You hear them talking outside, discussing how to deal with the bodies. You tune it out.

Ghorza closes and latches the door, and looks at you once more. She manages a small smile, before capturing your hand in hers and drawing you up the stairs behind her. She leads you to your bed.

“May I sleep here tonight?” Ghorza asks, standing beside your bed. “I think it would help me remember you are safe if you are beside me.”

You blush, and nod.

The two of you settle into your huge bed. Ghorza is stiff, and makes no move to touch you as she lays on her side, facing away from you. You debate for only a moment before squirming over, across the bed, to wrap your arms around her.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you whisper.

“Me, too.” She says, one of her hands covering your own as you curl your smaller body around hers.

You feel safe and warm, and it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep.

You wake early, and find yourself still wrapped around Ghorza. You smile, and enjoy the feeling for as long as you can before your body’s needs force you to get up. Ghorza wakes as soon as you move away, smiling shyly at you.

The two of you ease back into something resembling your normal morning routine. You get dressed, and make breakfast. You’re just finishing up when you hear a cart pull up out front.

Ghorza rises from her seat at the table and goes to open the door. You listen with one ear as you put the breakfast dishes into the sink. You hear her speaking to someone– probably Jolagh– and then you hear more people approaching. You put the kettle on the stove, and get ready to serve tea to whoever is here.

It is Jolagh, and two more of his orcs. The group settles themselves around your table, and within a few minutes you’re serving up cookies and tea, and taking a seat.

“We failed to protect you,” Jolagh says. “We owe you quite a bit.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Ghorza silences you with a glance.

“For you, Healer, we intend to restore your roof and barn as repayment.” He says. You nod, accepting his offer easily. “And for you, Ghorza, if you’ll accept it, we offer you a spot in our clan.”

“Are you certain?” She asks, a tremor in her voice.

You reach for her hand beneath the table. She grabs you like a lifeline.

“We may have failed to protect you last night, but being part of a clan will restore some of what you’ve lost, and if you accept it, we would love to have you.” He holds out a bead, like what he and his orcs wear.

She takes the bead with the hand not clinging to yours and nods.

“Good.” Jolagh says. “If you want it, there’s a home for you on clan lands, and we can help you find a job. Take your time. Let me know when you’ve decided about that.” He finishes his tea and sets the mug down before standing. His men echo his movements. “We’re going to get to work. Thank you for the tea and cookies.”

“Ghorza, this is great!” You say, smiling at her.

“I’ve gone from being homeless, clanless, and with nothing to live for to… this.” She says, smiling back. “All because I was lucky enough to collapse on your doorstep.”

“Yes.” You say. “I don’t like that you had to endure that pain, but I’m glad you’re here.” You reach out and embrace her. She leans into it, her arms coming around you and her head resting against your belly. The two of you stay like that for a few minutes.

“I don’t know if you need me here anymore,” she says finally.  “I could go live with the clan.”

You pull away, and cup her chin with your hands, looking at her face. She’s got tears welling up in her eyes.

“If I have to break every piece of furniture in this house, one item at a time, to keep you tethered here by an eternal to-do list, I will.” You inform her. “Ghorza, I want you here. Not just in Oakheart, but here. With me. You’ve made this house my home, and maybe whatever is between us won’t last, but… I think it will. And I’d like to explore it.”

She nods and gives you a watery laugh. You press a kiss to her nose, and wipe your thumbs over her cheeks, swiping the tears away. Your strong, beautiful orc woman is a bit of a weeper, you’re learning. You kind of love it. You love her, you realize.

You pepper more kisses over her face, your lips brushing against her brow, her her nose, her tusks, her cheeks, and eventually her lips. Teasing her with light kisses until she’s smiling again.

“Stay with me,” You say.

“I will,” she promises.

And she does.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in response to an anonymous submission on Tumblr. It was a really cute post that I was inspired by, and with their permission I expanded it into a full story. All of this is on my aelia-likes-monsters tumblr. :)


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